


All In My Head

by Raelynn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Pansexual Sherlock, Sherlock has feelings and no idea what to do with them, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2015-11-20
Packaged: 2018-05-02 14:13:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5251190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raelynn/pseuds/Raelynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock isn't gay, or asexual, but he is celibate.  By choice.  So why is his body determined to betray him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All In My Head

Despite persistent rumors, Sherlock Holmes isn’t gay. Gender has never been an important data point in whether or not he was attracted to anyone. He’s had lovers: male, female, both, and neither. 

Despite persistent rumors, Sherlock Holmes isn’t asexual. Sherlock Holmes rarely has sex, but his celibacy is very much a choice. His memories of sex are bound with his memories of substance abuse, the high of cocaine and heroin buoyed by the high of pounding into someone and groaning out his release, coming down from the orgasm and the high simultaneously.

Two things he’s (mostly) put in his past. The high of saving The Woman in Karachi had led to the high of taking her in a squalid hotel room, the two of them using each other to combat the terror and stress of what had just happened. The next morning they’d parted, Sherlock embarrassed by his lack of judgment, Irene vaguely disappointed that finally, FINALLY capturing the Consulting Detective was a hollow victory.

That was a lifetime ago. Since his rebirth almost two years ago, Sherlock hadn’t so much as considered sex. Messy, both figuratively and literally. 

So when he wakes up that wet, dreary spring morning, and his trip to the loo fails to deal with the persistent morning hard-on, he simply stares at his cock in annoyance. As if it was placed there specifically to make his life difficult. (Part of him wishes he’d been asexual, much like he wishes he were a sociopath. Sex drives and emotions are both equally annoying.)

Sighing, he pulls his pyjama bottoms back up, grabs his dressing gown from the back of the door, and stalks into the sitting room. If anyone could see him, it would be almost comical, the lanky detective swishing around his sitting room, dressing gown floating behind him, and his cock stubbornly announcing itself to the room.

He sees his morning tea already on his small side table, and thanks a God he doesn’t believe in that Mrs. Hudson has already been up. He walks over and locks the door, then ducks into the kitchen to lock the other door. No one needs to witness this, it’s bad enough HE has to witness it.

He sits down, and the constriction of the material of his pyjama bottoms pushing against his cock makes it twitch in excitement. He glares at it again, sips his tea. Recites pi to 25 decimal places. Sips his tea again.

Sighing, he sets down his tea. “So this is how it’s to be?” he says, looking down into his lap. 

His cock does not respond, other than to stand at attention, straining, and sending feelings up his spine he’d rather not feel.

Sherlock leaves his tea to get cold, heading back into the bedroom, throwing himself down on his bed like a petulant child that’s been sent to their room.

He pushes the pyjama pants down, just far enough to free his cock and balls. He hisses with the pleasure of his hand brushing across the head of his dick. Blindly reaching over, he rummages around in the drawer of the end table, wondering if the bottle of lube he’d put in there ages ago is still there, or even still in any condition to do it’s job.

He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed to find out that it is.

Pouring a small amount into his hand, he rubs his palms together, warming and spreading the lubrication. Reaching down with his right hand, he takes his cock in hand at the base, slowly sliding up to the head. His eyes snap shut, and he tries to clear his mind. Focus on the job at hand, as it were. 

Experience has taught him that letting his mind wander during this has two results - he’ll either get completely off track, and it will take forever to finish, or he will be utterly surprised at what his mind fills in with.

His mind, however, has other plans, and before he can blank everything out (it’s SO difficult, he is Sherlock Holmes, after all) what his mind summons for him is a long-forgotten memory. Molly Hooper, in 221B, between clients, the day he invited her to solve crimes with him.

She’d arrived in a mismatched set - a stripy jumper and a checked blouse - and between two clients she’d complained of how hot it was in the room.

And then she’d proceeded to slowly pull the jumper off over her head. It had tugged at the blouse, which rose just enough to show off a thin strip of her abdomen between the shirt and her trousers.

Sherlock remembered all too well how much his mind had stilled at that sight, the moment seeming to stretch out forever, as he stared at the seldom-seen spot of Molly Hooper’s skin. 

He’d managed to get himself under control before she emerged from under the jumper, carefully folding it over the back of the chair she’d been sitting on, and had been none the wiser of what her actions had done to him.

But he remembered.

His cock apparently remembered, as well, as it twitches in his hand as he thinks about that skin, and wonders what it would taste like to place kisses on Molly Hooper’s belly. What it would feel like to unbutton those trousers and continue kissing his way down.

He rounds the head of his penis again, pulling the foreskin back and lightly grazing the sensitive head. He’d long ago deduced that Molly Hooper trimmed her pubic hair, but did not shave it. He approves of this, and imagines what it would feel like to nuzzle into soft small curls with his nose, his tongue questing between her folds.

Sherlock gasps, tightening his grip on his cock and pumping his hand a little faster now. His other hand moves down to his bollocks, giving them a caress and a soft squeeze. He could almost hear Molly’s moans in his ears as he thought about how she would taste. How her hands would come down to bury themselves in his curls, her nails lightly scraping against his scalp.

Sherlock loses himself in the thoughts and the feelings, letting his body ride out this fantasy. He floats along until he’s breathing hard, twitching on the bed and snapping his hips up to meet his hand’s thrusts. With a barely-muffled shout, he comes, semen spilling over his hand and onto his stomach. 

He lay there for a moment, lost in the daze of the afterglow of his first satisfying orgasm in years. Usually, he denied himself, and his body took over, waking up every few months to sticky pyjamas that he rinsed in the tub and let dry before he would let Mrs. Hudson get near them. 

This was different, and instead of jumping up to immediately go clean up, he lay there, thinking about Molly, and what he’d just imagined. He drifts off back to sleep after a little while, and when he wakes he makes his way into the shower, letting the heat of the spray wash away the very small amount of shame he feels in fantasizing about a friend like that.

He ignores the little voice in the back of his head that told him that people didn’t fantasize that way about friends.

**Author's Note:**

> I noticed that the Sherlollilist didn't have a lot of recent wank!lock posts, so I figured instead of just complaining, I should do something about it. Wrote this over a lunch break, probably screwed up some tenses here or there, but I'll look it over again later. :P


End file.
